


You and I, we've reached the highest

by chirality (chiralBeast)



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, In which Zagreus doesn't know how to react to praise, Longing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27589031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiralBeast/pseuds/chirality
Summary: The edges of Thanatos’ mouth deepens. He’s watching Zagreus from his periphery, head tilted to highlight his sharp features. It’s moments like these that bring into focus just how obvious it is that they’re cut from a different cloth.
Relationships: Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 276





	You and I, we've reached the highest

1.

Zagreus’ first mistake is summoning Thanatos enough times to make a habit out of it.

 _Your uncles and cousins not enough for you, huh, Zag,_ he thinks, dizzy. His nose reeks of dirt. Unsurprising, given his present circumstances. _Still looking for any opportunity to have your hand held? Now here he comes. See how white his knuckles are._

Thanatos’ eyes flash in the dark. The back of Zagreus’ neck goes cold. His vision floods in purples and golds, ears popping, lungs struggling against the sudden change in pressure. And his good eye gets a glorified glimpse of it— a satyr, swinging an arm back, Zagreus’ instinctual urges honing in on its claws, its gnashing teeth, then—

He’s choking on dust. Zagreus curls in upon himself to cover his mouth with whatever scrap of fabric he can find; tries to ignore the sensation of his heart not so much stopping but forgetting to pulse, like a breath held until burning.

This had been his first mistake. The second is letting Thanatos see him die.

His mind feels like a tangible thing by how blurred it’s getting at the edges. It’s happening quick; quicker than the last dozen or so times. He wants to get up. His limbs have other ideas. Oh, but that’s alright— he’s sure he makes quite a sight on the floor already. Nothing but him and his split knuckles under Malphon, poison sweet on his skin, and bar-shaped little bite marks that pepper his legs, give him something to remember the encounter by. Yeah, sounds like a real party.

The thought simmers bright and dangerous in his chest. He’s honed his bones and for what, just to lie down face-down in the dirt while Death Incarnate watches over, with that slight tick to his brows that tells him just how pissed off he is?

“Quit that,” Thanatos chides, chisel sliding down polished marble. And Zagreus, to his merit, does try. To clamp down on his bubbling laugh, stop the blood hiccuping out of his lungs.

His shoulder blades grip into the dirt in the process. Comes away sticky. There’s blood on these hoof-trodden, grease-smeared labyrinthian tiles. They’ll have no use for his useless body but will no doubt relish in the sight. Something close to a sacrifice, something good enough. A thigh muscle twinges at the thought— and desperately he writhes and is held down because he is gripped by a sudden want, burning through his system in tandem with the poison. Because—

Because— the cold stone of Hades’ has no want nor use of his blood. It slides useless on its surface, falls between the cracks to spin in Tartarus or sizzle in Asphodel. But he desires to see it blossom in the way Thanatos had exactly described it— flowers brought to bloom from bodies thrown on top of bodies, disintegrating to nourish the soil below it.

And he’s spilt enough blood to make Tartarus rain, or to cover an entire mountain, maybe. He’s seen them on the surface, jutting out of the horizon line. It’s hard to get a scale for things when everything is too-crowded in Hades’ realm but— but he thinks it’s enough to cover a mountain with it, birth the _lavenders_ and _wild lupines_ Thanatos had stuttered out for him once.

“Enough to cover the entire span of the her gardens, at least,” Thanatos mutters. Zagreus experiences a wave of vertigo at the sudden closeness of it, at his loose mouth. Thanatos is here and a corner of his lip peeled back. It settles on his expression like a snarl, and it looks good on him, Zagreus thinks. Death takes but never bites and Zagreus for one is of the opinion that it’s a bleeding shame.

And he thinks, adrenaline-drunk, rip, tear, drunk on Malphon’s bloodlust, that he should at least test its edge before it disappears, for, oh— who knows when he’ll see it next. Centuries? An eternity? Knowing Thanatos, it would happen by some incomprehensible time kept by his internal clock and so, is far, far too long and aching for Zagreus to bear. So he swings up an arm, dangerously overestimates— he nearly smacks it into Thanatos’ forehead, but adjusts himself in time to pushes a clammy thumb against his lip, no— ah, got it— his canine, the white of his tooth eagerly pressing into the fleshy oval of his skin.

The dull sensation of it soothes, a little. But it does more than just confirm. Zagreus is, for lack of a better word, entranced. He holds it there as if to etch the sight into his memory.

Thanatos’ shoulders shift. He patiently takes his hand and detaches it from his mouth.

“The poison’s almost done with you. Your blood loss is proving to be quicker, though— it’ll catch up with you first.”

A most salient explanation as to why Zagreus’ vision feels as if it’s been tilted permanent to spin indefinitely on its axis.

Thanatos keeps his hand, to be safe, perhaps. His lips quirk but indents too deep to be called pleased. “Which is just as well. Satyr poison isn’t the most refined. A small mercy by the gods, perhaps. How do you feel?”

 _Like shit,_ Zagreus wants to quip, cheerful. But Thanatos’ hands are glacial and blissful against the consuming heat of his poison-fever.

So he says, declares, “you’re here,” and his mouth catches around the rounded edges of the words, which, by his tragic streak of luck, happens to be all of them.

“That... Zagreus, that doesn’t answer my question.”

 _Yes it does,_ Zagreus thinks. He writhes indignant against the heavy creases that form by Thanatos’ brows, so another hand comes down to pin his shoulder to the floor. Zagreus’ mind files this away as a fortunate thing. And with some shrewdness, guesses that this is the first and last fortunate thing that will ever happen to him in the labyrinths.

“Heavens. Just a few seconds more, now.”

The voice frays with something Zagreus cannot place. He turns his head to his right. Or left? Nausea seizes his stomach; a searing shadow ripples across his vision. Sensations unfold in a dizzying procession, first the rustle of fabric, then the thin trickle of hair across his forehead. Zagreus has enough wherewithal to wrinkle his nose at the feeling; he doesn’t want to focus on how numb the rest of his body feels, anyway.

“Zagreus,” Thanatos says. “I know you’re just trying to fix the situation in the only way you know how.”

His breath is surprisingly warm. A distant part of Zagreus thinks that maybe he doesn’t know that he can understand him.

“I couldn’t dare let myself think it, but... oh. My sisters do have an awful fondness for this sort of thing. And between your Mother, and your Father— I fear they’ll have you cleaved in two before they realise what they’ve been doing to you.”

Zagreus’ conscience had been sliding into the ground. It slips over comfortable over him like second skin. But something sputters, protests— this feels important. He should hold onto it. Or— or— heavens, say something to him.

“Take him back home for me, won’t you.”

Dirt mollifies into water. The Styx finds his open mouth, lurching, eager.

  
  


2.

Oh, hell, Zagreus thinks, the flames of his feet chasing up his heels. Hell, hell, damn him to hell, as if he isn’t breathing in the thick of it already.

Zagreus finds him by a lower echelons of Elysium, in one of those private, whispering places where former souls bathe themselves in the Lethe to never wade out again. It’s a humid air that prickles against his skin; the place gives him the creeps, maybe even more so than the brooding cages of Tartarus.

Imprinting dark onto it is Thanatos. His wide shoulders carve an arc that’s just about as distinctive as his scythe. It’s clear that he isn’t looking for a fight. He’s making no pretences of a happenstance encounter under the guise of a game.

Zagreus’ steps stumble at that— then he measures it, makes sure his footsteps are heard (a silly force of habit; he is dealing with Death, after all), sheathes Stygius by the void of his arsenal (he won’t be picking up Malphon any time soon), and— and he breathes. Calms the rapid staccato beat of his heart.

“Than,” he calls. Injecting his usual cheer into the name feels crude, inappropriate. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

Thanatos turns to look at him. The sharp cut of his hair slides quick against his cheekbones, only to come to a stop by his eyes. They must poke uncomfortable into them— he’s blinking rapid against the intrusion.

“Oh,” Zagreus says. He bites his lip, charmed despite himself. “Your hair’s finally starting to grow out.”

“It tends to do that, yes,” Thanatos intones. He runs an impatient hand against it.

“Not feeling up to one of our games, I take it."

“No. I... I thought it was time for a change of pace, for once.”  
  
Something bleeds slow and long in Zagreus’ chest. “Yeah. I don’t blame you.”

He swallows. Thanatos shifts his grip on his scythe. And the Lethe rolls on, placid.

Right.

So they have their unspoken words, hanging cumbersome between them. This is an understatement. Thanatos’ mind is as unfathomable as it is dear to him, his thoughts slow to find the light of day as if the god subjects them to days in his own personal labyrinth; only finding the exit if he deems them worthy of it.

This means that too often, he learns things about Thanatos far, far later than he should. In fact, it’s shocking. There’s no lack of guilt when he’ll find himself surprised on those little things mentioned in passing, proof of just how little he knows of someone who occupies so much of his thoughts— in between doors, a short prayer held in his breath— or after, when he throws his body to the surface to be berated and tossed, once again.

But— Zagreus is good with labyrinths, right? He gets through them just fine (if with a bit of bumbling around with one too many broken vases and fractured bones) because as long as there is an exit, the only thing separating _him_ and _it_ is time, clear and simple.

It doesn’t stop Zagreus’ pulse from pummelling near wild out of his body. This is where the comparison falls apart, and quickly, too.

Thanatos is— well, how can he put it?

When Thanatos had spoken those words to him, just shy of the surface. He’d made it sound as if the sight of Zagreus being cut open in half would tear into him, too. And it had taken him one too many deaths to realise it, one of those things that are blindingly obvious in retrospect— a cruel joke by the Fates. That whatever this strained connection they share is, it is painstakingly, irrefutably, mutual. And flung against the backdrop of an eternity, and another eternity on top of that—

“Than,” Zagreus says. He’s voice comes out smaller than he’d like. “Might you be able to spare some time to talk?”  
  


3.

The river Lethe that rolls smooth over his legs feel like marble, like whispers distilled and compressed into liquid form.

Zagreus’ fingers dig in and out of the grass. He watches how the motion tugs at the plants until it pulls out roots, blades cutting useless against his skin.

“Zagreus,” Thanatos says, and Zagreus’ insides stir, reshape, then settle at once. It’s funny how something so simple can have such an effect on him— untangling some of the knots before they have a chance to form.

He lifts his hand. He tries to lay it placid on his lap, but his fingers twitch. They tap out a stuttering rhythm on his skin.

The edges of Thanatos’ mouth deepens. He’s watching Zagreus from his periphery, head tilted to highlight his sharp features. It’s moments like these that bring into focus just how obvious it is that they’re cut from a different cloth. Such unnatural stillness, and a gaze that rebounds to create something far deeper, something timeless held below silver eyelashes. Grace such as this could only come from a child of Mother Night.

All this, just to end in Thanatos extending a hand. Zagreus beams.

“Thanks,” he says, and honestly, the word doesn’t do it justice. It’s been _ages_ since they’ve done this, and he says it as much. “How long has it been since we’ve had the chance to properly spend some time together? Centuries, maybe.”

A scoff. “Centuries? Don’t be dramatic.”

He eagerly takes the hand and presses into the palm, feels the cool give of skin. Then he smooths out each individual finger with the reverence of habit, thumb tracing over the callouses. Until finally, he interlaces their hands and locks them together, and Thanatos reciprocates in kind with firm pressure.

Zagreus loved to fidget on Thanatos when they had been kids. Playing with his hair, tugging at his elbow, bending his fingers this way and that. It’s practically a miracle that he’d put up with him for so long, and so patiently, too. Never snapping once for pulling and pushing for too long, or for annoying him in every little way Zagreus could find. But It’s not as if he’s _intentionally_ trying to be annoying— he swears it.

It’s just that, with him and Nyx and Hypnos, and Hades, too— he’d felt that he _had_ to be a god meant for a completely different domain, living by a completely different set of parents— because how else could he have explained the dissonance he’d felt? So completely at odds with their words, their mannerisms, with interests and compulsions that jarred against whatever godly mantle they’ve shouldered, so unreachable to him.

It’s thoughts like these that stir his blood into something stifling and shockingly violent; but the pressure is enough, for now. Zagreus’ hand lies dormant under Thanatos’ hold. Legs dipped into the Lethe, grass scratching his thighs— he’s silent, and content, attention momentarily caught by a shade wading across the dewy river. It must’ve been in Hades’ realm for quite some time now. Its form is reduced to vague suggestions; all memories of the life it once held having been whittled away by unrelenting paradise.

It stops by some indistinct point. Then slowly, laboriously— it folds itself into the river.

Zagreus shivers. What comes out after a handful of breaths is a butterfly. No doubt it will find itself congregating with a soul catcher. Stripped of its memories, it’s possible that the only urge it has left is an instinctive one, to be with its brothers and sisters.

“Here,” Thanatos says. He snaps his fingers and the butterfly skids, trembles in the air before alighting on his hand.

“Huh,” Zagreus breathes. Then he catches himself. “I can’t believe you’re making friends with the butterfly that will no doubt be the cause of my death at some point in the very near future,” he says. “Don’t imagine you can teach me how to do that? Save me some grief?”

Thanatos’ mouth twists in the way Zagreus knows he’s pleased. “Sorry, Zag. Trade secret.”

“Shame,” Zagreus bemoans. Thanatos huffs, and it’s short, and wispy, and as good as a laugh he’s going to get. But Zagreus cannot wait for the day he pulls the genuine thing out of him. Anything goes— he’ll get himself drunk silly if that’s what it’ll take.

“Though I don’t suppose you’re planning on divulging your thoughts any time soon,” Thanatos says. “You know my patience isn’t completely my own— those mortals up there have a say, too,”

“Oh, so it’s finally my turn to have a word with Death himself, is it. Lucky me,” Zagreus shoots back— his god-estranging, father-slaying mouth. “That’s to say— I know how important your job is to you, and I’m grateful for you being here. Serious.”

Thanatos stiffens. Then, slowly, slowly, his shoulders unwind. Ever the wordsmith, Zagreus, with your crude, hasty apologies held between your teeth. But— quickly now. Think. Where to start? So much had been said in between those crammed, poison-slick walls. Thanatos’ shining anger sticks out in his memory— and the words that had followed it, almost bitter enough to be barbed.

Zagreus blurts the first thought that comes to his mind. “It’s the strangest feeling, you know.”

He swallows, but Thanatos’ expression is encouraging. So he continues, “Persephone, Mother, she— she looks at me like I should know her. And I think she’s secretly putting the same pressure on herself.” Zagreus presses on despite the sensation of his stomach folding upon itself, getting heavier with each successful turn. “I don’t know how to quite explain it. She feels so real and so— _intangible,_ all at once. Like I’m looking into a mirror instead of the real thing. Is that— is that normal, do you think?”

His gaze helplessly focusing on Thanatos’ drawn brows, Zagreus feels a sense of foreboding; that by speaking his thoughts, he has made them a reality.

“My experience on the matter is obviously limited,” Thanatos says, “but... I think I can see why you might feel that way.” His words are slow. Carefully picked. “You’ve spent so little time together. All that, against a lifetime's worth of expectations, almost. If I were you, I wouldn’t be so quick to draw to conclusions.”

Zagreus eyes the grass. He wants to pull them out by the roots again. “I don’t know about that,” he says, clipped. “Besides, this is all happening on top of the fact that I’ve been lying to the entirety of Olympus, essentially.” He looks at Thanatos then, lets out a smile— and he knows that it looks _absolutely_ more unhinged than pleasant. “Just a fantastic mess, all around. Aren’t you proud?

Something flits across Thanatos’ expression. It’s too quick to pick apart. “Proud?” he says, because of course he’d latch onto a throw-away word only to give it the light of attention with nauseating intensity.

Zagreus chucks his legs out of the Lethe. He swings to face Thanatos in full. “No, don’t answer that. Why would you want to answer that? It was _rhetorical_ .”

“Why not? I won’t deny that I didn’t understand what you were trying to achieve at first, or why—”

“Than,” Zagreus interrupts, almost pleads— because gods, all he wants to do is crawl out of his skin when he sees Thanatos’ eyes set stubborn like that. He’d just upended his guts for Thanatos to pick through. Hadn’t that been enough?

“— But your persistence is hard to ignore. And I dare say that I’ve been starting to see some welcome changes in Hades’ domain, as unbelievable as it is. ”

Elysium is pitched too bright. Zagreus wants to squeeze his eyes shut.

“And sometimes, Zag, what you manage to do— it’s stunning. I wish you would see that.”

 _Oh,_ Zagreus thinks, despairs. He’s said it. He really has. And how immediate his body leans into it— blood racing through his system, making his head feel strangely cushioned, buzzing furtively against its skull.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, weak.

“I do.”

And Thanatos rearranges their fingers to massage the back of his hand, and that is that.

Mist settles. The glade is conspicuously bereft of souls. Styx take him, but Zagreus is pretty sure he’s melting into the grass.

“We should do this more often,” Thanatos says. His voice is hushed, low. “For now, though— I really should get going, Zag.”

“I know,” says Zagreus, reflexive. Then his mind catches on the fact that Thanatos’ hand is loosening.

“I can’t tell you when I’ll be able to spare time like this, for next time.”

 _Next time_. Zagreus stirs. “Hey, it’s fine. I’ll be here.”

He tries to untangle their hands with leaden fingers. When had it gotten so sweaty?

Thanatos cooperates, to a point— his thumb lingers to press on a pulse point. “I’ll see you back at home, then.”  
  
“Yeah.”

  
There’s never a warning for it, and he wishes he can find himself prepared for it, one day.

For now, for now— a flash of cold light bathes the air, the statues— and just like that, Zagreus is left on the grass, shivering, with his slow, pulsing heart and an ache in his chest that rears its head every time he’s left alone.

It’s almost dizzying. Had this always been here? What stirs in his absence, and how it feels a little like fear and a lot like complete adoration. It makes Zagreus’ teeth ache, and he doesn’t know what to do with it besides handle it in the only way he knows how; grasp onto it with everything he has, the words _stunning_ and _next time_ wrapped around him like a ring, a keepsake.

**Author's Note:**

> it is 2020 and i can write praise-desperate zagreus. as a little treat.


End file.
